


Of Phone Calls and Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer

by ironicalei6h



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Parent!lock, SO MUCH FLUFF, So yeah, basically fluff written for a christmas present, but i love it so much so its okay, i mean seriously this is a lot of fluff guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicalei6h/pseuds/ironicalei6h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Papa?” The voice was quiet but close. John Watson slowly opened one of his eyes, revealing to him the truly adorable sight of his five-year-old daughter in her ankle-length nightgown, a pillow in one arm and her stuffed ducky in the other. Madeleine’s normally pale cheeks were flushed pink—with the December cold or excitement, John couldn’t tell yet—and her young, pearly teeth made a brilliant appearance between her chapped lips. “Papa, it’s morning.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Phone Calls and Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exordium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exordium/gifts).



> Parent!lock fluff. Set in 2016; I thought thirteen years was enough time for John and Sherlock to get past the whole Reichenbach thing and get to adopting babies and cuddling and doing all that stuff they've always wanted to do. (; Cheers! I hope you like it!
> 
> And yes, Maria, darling, this is for you.

 “Papa?” The voice was quiet but close. John Watson slowly opened one of his eyes, revealing to him the truly adorable sight of his five-year-old daughter in her ankle-length nightgown, a pillow in one arm and her stuffed ducky in the other. Madeleine’s normally pale cheeks were flushed pink—with the December cold or excitement, John couldn’t tell yet—and her young, pearly teeth made a brilliant appearance between her chapped lips. “Papa, it’s _morning_.”

            “I can see that,” John said. He smiled despite himself as he glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping form cuddled against his back. Early morning sunlight dropped down through the thin curtain over the window, converting the pale white skin to a more wholesome ivory. John’s smile widened as he turned back to his daughter. “Did you wake your brother, too?” He took Madeleine’s grin as a definitive “yes” and sighed. John’s suspicions were confirmed when he heard slow shuffling over the creaky floorboards in the kitchen. “Okay, ducky,” John groaned quietly as he reached an arm out from beneath the warm duvet, “go tell Marty to help you sort the presents out, yeah? We’ll be up in a bit.” Madeleine giggled and grasped John’s hand in hers for a moment before sprinting from the room. As John rolled over (groaning, again), he heard Madeleine call out to her brother and knew they would be properly occupied for ten, fifteen minutes at least.

            When John moved, Sherlock protested loudly, squeezing his eyes shut and positioning his mouth into a frown. John smiled and gently swiped his thumb over the full bottom lip before him; Sherlock stirred, letting out a deep breath as his eyelids finally fluttered open. It took him a few minutes to adjust to the light, but once he had, Sherlock groaned and latched onto John’s chest.

            “We have to get up, they’re already awake,” John murmured as he kissed the top of the head on his shoulder. Sherlock grumbled something about the sun not even being properly up, wrapping a leg around John’s. He burrowed his face into the side of John’s neck, gently nipping the skin below his jawbone. John chuckled, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s curly hair once more before reluctantly pulling away. “Up,” he said, hoping to instill a bit more sternness to his voice. Sherlock was impervious, of course, but it was worth a shot. It took at least five minutes longer than it should have, trying to coax Sherlock out of the bed—during which John had to endure a brief wrestling match and avoid multiple grabs at his clothed backside. Eventually, the boys made their way into the sitting room, smiling wordlessly and tying the sashes on their bathrobes.

             The seven-year-old Martin, Madeleine’s elder by a year and a half, was clearly directing the proceedings at the foot of the tree. Madeleine crouched at her brother’s side, her brow furrowed in concentration as she painstakingly organized the presents by recipient. By the looks of things, the adults were to sit on the couch—John on the side of the windows, Sherlock nearer to the door—and the kids to be settled in the middle of the floor. Sharing conspiratorial smiles, John and Sherlock sat on the ends of the couch opposite their piles of presents, waiting for their children to notice.

             “Dad! Papa! No, that’s not _right_!” Martin stood, flustered, pulling both of his parents off the couch and directing them to their proper seats. Sherlock chuckled and ruffled Martin’s ginger hair as he passed; the boy hugged his father’s leg before he could move away. “Happy Christmas, Dad,” Martin said before running around the piles of presents to offer the same greeting to John.

             Madeleine approached Sherlock, a small package in her hands, holding it up for him to take. “We wrapped it for Papa,” she whispered proudly. The present, which was quite obviously a compilation of Madeleine’s artwork and Martin’s less amateur compositions all folded up into squares and bound by ribbon, was more or less strangled by the wrapping paper, but Sherlock had no doubt that John would love it. He grinned and bent down to pick up the girl. Madeleine squealed as he settled her on his practically nonexistent hip.

             “Merry Christmas, minions,” Sherlock said cheerfully—only slightly kidding—as he carried Madeleine over to John’s pile of presents. She giggled and placed the package gently on top of the stack before kissing her daddy’s cheek.

             Suddenly, Madeleine was straining out of Sherlock’s hold, laughing loudly and shouting “merry Christmas” over and over as soon as her little feet touched the floor. Sherlock was properly startled, deciding it best to take his seat on the couch beside his husband before both of their children went completely mad.

             Madeleine laid the last parcel at Sherlock’s feet, and John laughed as Martin raced to his pile of presents. “Can we start now? Please?” the kids chorused; John idly wondered if he and Harry had been that loud as children. (Probably so.) The inevitable, sober thought surfaced as it always did, that Sherlock hadn’t had Christmas mornings like this during his childhood, but John smiled and passed it off. Sherlock had these Christmases, now:  the ones with their children, their friends, and (occasionally, and only briefly) their families.

             Once Martin’s adoption had been finalized six years before, Mycroft had taken up the habit of calling every Christmas after they’d had their breakfast. Sherlock spared him a few words before passing the phone off to John, who consistently gave Sherlock an exasperated look as Mycroft fulfilled his role of the bothersome uncle and asked question after question about the children’s wellbeing (Martin and Madeleine must have found Mycroft endearing, or funny, or _something_ , because they always seemed excited when he visited; John did have to admit that Mycroft was extremely fond of the children and spoiled them rotten). Although they’d all just woken up, John found himself dreading the phone call already. Quickly, he pushed those unwanted thoughts away and focused on Sherlock, who was watching him intently, and their two, very impatient children, who were brimming with excitement and each grasping their largest presents respectively.

              “Go ahead—smallest ones first,” John quickly added. The kids groaned but did as their father insisted, shuffling through their piles for their smallest presents.

              The proceedings of the Watson-Holmes household’s Present Opening of 2026 went as expected—Martin tore through the wrappings with little thought to where he deposited the paper while his sister slipped her fingers beneath the folded corners of the decorative sheets and kept the wrapping as a whole intact, stacking and folding each one as she opened her presents. Sherlock and John noiselessly watched their children laugh and show off their gifts—books, sheet music, jumpers, stuffed animals, finger paint, and the like—as they opened their own, less numerous presents. John gave Sherlock a nice new watch (a particularly reckless smuggler had smashed his old one whilst being wrestled to the ground in a back alley two weeks before; Sherlock chuckled when he opened the watch and immediately put it on his slender wrist, letting John secure the clasp), and Sherlock gave John no less than ten jumpers (because it was impossible for John Watson to have too many jumpers).

             The time came when the presents had all been thoroughly exclaimed over and set aside for later enjoyment, and Sherlock told Martin to retrieve his violin. They’d bought it for his last birthday, and he’d hardly put the thing down since. Martin was ecstatic to play Christmas music with Sherlock and immediately shot off to the room he shared with his sister upstairs; John carted Madeleine off to the kitchen, requesting her help with breakfast. Sherlock and Martin played “Carol of the Bells” and Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” as sausage, bacon, and eggs sizzled in the kitchen under their counterparts’ careful watch.

              Breakfast was a quick affair, and all too soon, Sherlock had to halt Martin’s playing of “Jingle Bells” to answer the phone. “Mycroft,” Sherlock said exhaustedly, trying futilely not to act too immaturely in front of the children. They were accustomed to Sherlock’s treatment of his brother and giggled; John shushed them quietly. “Martin was playing for us, before you so inconveniently interrupted. No. Yes. Hm. I suppose. Yes, yes, _fine_. Merry Christmas, _yes_. My God, learn some patience, man,” Sherlock ground out in irritation, handing the phone to John in one sudden movement.

              John sighed and took the mobile, pressing it to his ear. “Mycroft. Merry Chrismas.”

              “Merry Christmas, John. How are Madeleine and Martin?” Mycroft’s voice was convoluted through the mobile service and abnormally loud Christmas music was playing in the background. Well, that was different. As far as John knew, Mycroft spent Christmas in his study doing absolutely nothing—which, now that John thought about it, seemed to be all Mycroft did sometimes. Mycroft sighed heavily, making the line go all static-y. “I’m at an insufferable holiday get-together that my otherwise bored staff elected to put together, in case you were wondering. Do stop pondering my whereabouts quite so insistently, John, and answer my question. The children?”

               John glowered at Sherlock, who pointedly ignored him and plucked the strings of his violin. Martin and Madeleine held their hands over each others’ mouths to stifle their mirth. “I would think they’re well, considering it’s Christmas and they’ve just opened their presents.”

              “Did they get _my_ presents?” Mycroft asked suspiciously.

               John rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mycroft. They got your presents. Didn’t you, kids?” John raised his eyebrows at them to cue their agreement; Martin and Madeleine both called out to Uncle Mycroft, thanked him for their presents, and wished him a very merry Christmas, _indeed_. John tried not to dwell on the fact that they were being whole-heartedly serious, climbing all over Sherlock and himself in order to get to the phone. “You know what? Here, talk to Uncle Mycroft.” He handed the phone to Martin, who eagerly took it and began talking immediately. The kids moved off the sofa to the center of the room, both speaking into the phone at once.

              “I’ll never truly understand,” Sherlock muttered, linking his hand with John’s atop his husband’s thigh, “just _why_ they adore him so much.”

              “You have to admit, he’s good with them,” John sighed. Mycroft _was_ good with the kids. He gave Martin pertinent advice on bettering his violin playing and sat for hours at a time discussing the deeper meanings of Madeleine’s finger paintings with her. He went to every birthday party, gladly offered to stand-in when the children needed transportation and both of their parents were otherwise indisposed, and watched over—for lack of a better term, because both Holmes brothers readily detested the word “ _babysat_ ”—them on the nights John and Sherlock just needed a while off. Reluctantly, John was tremendously grateful.

              Sherlock merely grunted in concession to his husband’s remark, watching as the kids burst out in particularly boisterous laughter. Maybe it said something of Sherlock’s character that his disapproval of his children’s relationship with his brother was so strong, but John didn’t waste time or effort holding it against him. Sherlock was Sherlock, Mycroft was Mycroft, and that was that.

             Madeleine abandoned the amusement gained by wrestling the mobile from her brother and crawled up to sit on the sofa between her fathers. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around her stomach, and Madeleine curled into her Daddy’s side, dropping her feet into her Papa’s lap. Martin still sat in the middle of the floor, animatedly recounting to his uncle the praise he’d received from his teacher after the holiday music recital—for which Mycroft had, of course, been present.

             “Daddy, let’s watch Rudolf.” Madeleine fisted the front of Sherlock’s robe in her tiny left hand, snuggling into his shoulder.

             John watched in amazement as his husband smiled fondly and played with a loose strand of Madeleine’s pale brown hair; he didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Sherlock as he was with their children, all gentle cuddles and playful teases and suppressed irritation when one of them didn’t understand something. It had unnerved John at first, but he quickly got over the initial shock and found himself utterly enamored by the novel gentleness his husband seemed more and more prone to displaying as time wore on. “My own father was a bit like this sometimes, if I remember correctly. Which I do,” Sherlock had answered John when asked why he suddenly acted so differently, shrugging. It had been just after adopting Martin, and they were having a wholly unsuccessful time trying to feed him. They’d spent the afternoon sitting on the floor, handing the toddler snacks and trying to decide what they should do for dinner. “Might be why.”

             “Mmm, as soon as your brother gets off the phone with Uncle Mycroft, all right, ducky?” Sherlock murmured to Madeleine, pulling John back to the present, and their daughter closed her eyes as Sherlock kissed the top of her head. An inexplicably elated smile stretched across John’s face, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him in bewildered amusement. John simply shook his head, suddenly finding himself unable to speak, and took Sherlock’s hand again as Martin hung up the phone.

             “Uncle Mycroft says ‘Merry Christmas’, everybody,” he said loudly, on the verge of bounding onto the sofa before John stopped him.

             “Marty, don’t run! Would you get the Rudolf DVD off the shelf and put it in? We’re going to watch movies. Do you want hot chocolate?” John asked nobody in particular, but all three fervently accepted John’s offer as he stood and moved into the kitchen. He made the hot chocolate slowly, giving Martin time to start the movie and let the previews roll. John entered back into the sitting room, precariously carrying the four beverages in both of his hands. Sherlock relieved him of two cups, handing one to Madeleine, and John nudged Martin with his foot so he could sit beside Sherlock before handing his son the last unclaimed mug.

             The movies were cheesy and outdated, but Madeleine and Martin both felt an odd, unexplainable draw to the older Christmas specials. Neither John nor Sherlock minded. John knew that Sherlock had always upheld the pretense that he didn’t approve of Christmas (or the merriment it elicited from the world in general) previous to the arrival of the children, but he’d been caught on too many late-December mornings watching _The Year Without a Santa Clause_ after he thought John was asleep for him to believe it. John had never said as much, but he appreciated Sherlock’s surreptitious love of the holiday.

            The four of them fell asleep on the sofa as the movies continued playing, children curled up atop their parents’ chests. Sherlock woke first and studied the room around him. It took him a short, terribly disorienting moment to remember why the room was in a state of more intense chaos than usual, but eventually the wrapping paper shreds and the Christmas tree registered in his brain.

            Sherlock sighed somewhat contentedly, settling back into the cushions of the sofa, his hand brushing that of John’s between them. The telly’s screen glowed irritatingly blue from across the room, the Christmas movies having stopped what must have been over an hour before. From the amount of dimming light streaming through the windows, Sherlock would say it was at least four o’clock, and he decided his family would like to be awake for Christmas dinner if they were to have it.

             He gently nudged Martin awake first, and the small boy lifted his head to look at his dad, hair sticking up at all angles. Madeleine was next, and she sleepily plopped her head back onto Sherlock’s chest after a lazy, positively adorable snore escaped her nasal cavities. Sherlock chuckled and addressed Martin, “Take your sister upstairs and make sure that you’re both showered and dressed for dinner. I’ll wake Papa and see if Ms. Hudson is finished cooking.”

             Martin groggily nodded, taking his sister’s hand and dragging her off the couch. Madeleine protested but walked behind her brother nonetheless. They disappeared through the doorway of the sitting room, and Sherlock heard their uneven footsteps on the stairs before the bedroom door opened and closed shut.

             Turning to his sleeping husband, Sherlock brushed the hair away from John’s face and gently kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. John stirred, his nose wriggled, and he let out a sleepy breath. His head fell to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock chuckled and nudged John again gently, insistent. “Wake up, blogger,” he murmured, barely containing his laughter. John was—without a doubt—the most endearing thing on the planet when he was asleep (which was proved by the fact that Sherlock was willing to _admit_ that he was ‘endearing’ at all).

            “Have I been demoted now? I’m back to ‘blogger’?” John asked, his voice slow and thickened by sleep. He yawned thoroughly and sat up a little straighter, but Sherlock pulled him back down to fit with his side, an arm wrapping around John’s shoulders.

            “Sleeping on the job. It’s a terrible offense,” Sherlock declared, his tone deadpan. John laughed and dropped his head to nuzzle against the silky material of Sherlock’s robe. Their fingers intertwined, and silence reigned for a few immeasurable moments.

           “Ms. Hudson’s cooking, and the kids are getting ready. We probably should, too,” Sherlock suggested, not sounding too keen to get up.

          “Mmm. We probably should,” John agreed, not at all more willing to move than Sherlock.

          They both laughed quietly at their own laziness, and each stretched one way or the other so their lips could meet in the middle. “I don’t want to get up,” Sherlock admitted shamelessly, shifting on the sofa so John was more or less at eye level with him.

          “Me either,” John said with the same conviction, and  the two settled in for as much of a cuddle as they could before it was absolutely necessary to rise and dress for dinner with Ms. Hudson.

          “Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock said softly, and both men’s eyes closed.

           John and Sherlock could hear their children moving upstairs, more energetically now that they’d woken up a bit, and they could hear Ms. Hudson’s oven door close loudly downstairs. They could smell spiced apples, cinnamon, and the tree across the room.

          “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

          They could feel Christmas.


End file.
